Maskerade

of the walls.

    When Agnes got back to the room Christine was already fast asleep, snoring the snore of those in herbal heaven. The mug lay by the bed.
    It wasn’t a bad thing to do, Agnes reassured herself. Christine probably needed a good night’s sleep. It was practically a kindly act.
    She turned her attention to the flowers. There were quite a lot of roses and orchids. Most of them had cards attached. Many aristocratic men apparently appreciated good singing or, at least, good singing that appeared to come from a face like Christine’s.
    Agnes arranged the flowers Lancre fashion, which was to hold the pot with one hand and the bouquet in the other and forcibly bring the two into conjunction.
    The last bunch was the smallest, and wrapped in red paper. There was no card. In fact, there were no flowers.
    Someone had merely wrapped up half a dozen blackened and spindly rose stems and then, for some reason, sprayed them with scent. It was musky and rather pleasant, but a bad joke all the same. She threw them in the bin with the rubbish, blew out the candle, and sat down to wait.
    She wasn’t certain for whom. Or what.
    After a minute or two she was aware that there was a glow coming from the waste bin. It was the barest fluorescence, like a sick glowworm, but it was there.
    She crawled across the floor and peered in.
    There were rosebuds on the dead sticks, transparent as glass, visible only by the glimmer on the edge of each petal. They flickered like marsh lights.
    Agnes lifted them out carefully and fumbled in the darkness for the empty mug. It wasn’t the best of vases, but it would have to do. Then she sat and watched the ghostly flowers until…
    …someone coughed. She jerked her head up, aware that she’d fallen asleep.”
    “Madam?”
    “Sir?!”
    The voice was melodious. It suggested that, at any minute, it might break into song.
    “Attend. Tomorrow you must sing the part of Laura in Il Truccatore . We have much to do. One night is barely enough. The aria in Act One will occupy much of our time.”
    There was a brief passage of violin music.
    “Your performance tonight was…good. But there are areas that we must build upon. Attend.”
    “Did you send the roses?!”
    “You like the roses? They bloom only in darkness.”
    “Who are you?! Was it you I heard singing just now!?”
    There was silence for a moment.
    “Yes.”
    Then:
    “Let us examine the role of Laura in Il Truccatore— ‘The Master of Disguise’, also sometimes vulgarly known as ‘The Man with a Thousand Faces’…”

    When the witches arrived at Goatberger’s offices next morning they found a very large troll sitting on the stairs. It had a club across its knees and held up a shovel-sized hand to prevent them going any farther.
    “No one’s allowed in,” it said. “Mr. Goatberger is in a meetin’.”
    “How long is this meetin’ going to be?” said Granny.
    “Mr. Goatberger is a very elongated meeter.”
    Granny gave the troll an appraising stare. “You been in publishin’ long?” she said.
    “Since dis mornin’,” said the troll proudly.
    “Mr. Goatberger gave you the job?”
    “Yup. Come up Quarry Lane and picked me special for…”—the troll’s brow creased as it tried to remember the unfamiliar words—“…the fast track inna fast-movin’ worlda publishin’.”
    “And what exactly is your job?”
    “’Ead ’itter.”
    “’Scuse me,” said Nanny, pushing forward. “I’d know that strata anywhere. You’re from Copperhead in Lancre, ain’t you?”
    “So what?”
    “We’re from Lancre, too.”
    “Yeah?”
    “This is Granny Weatherwax, you know.”
    The troll gave her a disbelieving grin, and then its brow corrugated again, and then it looked at Granny.
    She nodded.
    “The one you boys call Aaoograha hoa , you know?” said Nanny. “‘She Who Must Be Avoided’?”
    The troll looked at its club as if seriously considering the possibility of beating itself to death.
    Granny patted it on the lichen-encrusted shoulder. “What’s your name, lad?”
    “Carborundum, miss,” it mumbled. One of its legs began to tremble.
    “Well, I’m sure you’re going to make a good life for yourself here in the big city,” said Granny.
    “Yes, why don’t you go and start now?” said Nanny.
    The troll gave her a grateful look and fled, without even bothering to open the door.
    “Do they really call me that?” said Granny.
    “Er. Yes,” said Nanny, kicking herself. “It’s a mark of